Silent Restraint

Dean thanked the man and got out of the car. He was on the side of the highway somewhere in Illinois. His lips were set in a determined perpetual pout as he trundled down the short dirt path wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. And sure enough, just as that guy in the car told him, there was his Impala and the big grey Dodge truck he hadn't seen for several months. Neither of them looked damaged in any way, except they were missing their passengers.

He cursed that sonofabitch vamp once again, for probably the hundredth time since he left California to go find his brother. Reagan had called him to come talk to this guy, who turned out to be a vampire. All the vampire said before leaving was that Dean's brother may be in a shit ton of trouble (not exactly in those words) and that the last time he saw him he was around the Tallahassee area and that he was sorry; but that was all. And then the fucker disappeared. No further explanation, just up and left into the night. Hadn't even caught his name.

The worst part was probably that he was right. Sammy was obviously in trouble. He'd followed Sam's trail from Tallahassee all the way up here and now he was nowhere to be found. He approached his baby, running a hand along the side-

There was a dirty brown leather sneaker in his car. He stooped and found the sneaker attached to a leg wrapped in skin-tight jeans. Above the low-cut waist was a flash of creamy white skin and then the hem of a black t-shirt and a ratty brown leather jacket. He walked around the vehicle to the other side and found the head, which was much tanner than the waist, and shoulders, visible through the cracked window. He straightened his jacket and frowned. Then he licked his lips and glared over the top of the Impala, annoyed, before banging on the window with this knuckles. The girl in his car groaned and stuck a hand up, middle finger extended. He frowned and knocked again.

"For fuck's sake, officer, I just need some damn sleep."

Dean rocked back on his heels, licking his lips again, raising his eyebrows.

"Sorry, Sweetheart, but I'm just about the furthest thing from a cop. And this is my car."

The girl looked up at him, pushing dark hair out of her face, then murmured, loud enough for Dean to hear, "Almost as pretty as the fucking car."

Dean stepped back so she could open the door and get out. "You see the guy who was driving this?" he wasted no time asking. "Huge, tall guy with long hair. Sam."

The girl shrugged. "I only found the cars last night. I slept in this one cause the window was cracked and I could get in without hurting her." She touched the black metal fondly before looking back at Dean. "I didn't see anyone."

He swore under his breath and turned away from her, one hand instinctively going up to touch his head, but coming back down almost immediately, so it just sort of hovered there for a moment before returning to his side.

"This guy steal your car or something?" she asked.

"He's my brother, and I don't know where he is now." He shook his head and swore again, looking at her. "Did you touch anything?"

"Nope. I was out like a light. That's the softest surface I've slept on in a few days."

"What's your name?"

"Dex Casey." She started going through her pockets and pulled out a carton of stale cigarettes. She put one on her lips and offered him one. He shook his head and turned away to investigate his car. Meanwhile, Dex couldn't get her lighter to catch, so she gave up on the cigarette and felt contented just to hold it between her fingers. She didn't like them anyways, she told herself; they stink. She went round to the trunk, were he was at, to ask him what his name was, but was stopped by what she saw he was doing.

"Holy shit, Bro... that's a whole fucking- shit- you can arm a whole fucking army of children with that shit."

Dean looked up at her. "I need to find my brother."

"Obviously," she muttered, picking up a small silver knife and poking it against her hand, cigarette still clutched between her fingers. She picked up an I.D. with his picture on it, probably fallen out of his box of them. "Jimmy Page, FBI? I thought you weren't a cop."

"Don't touch that." Dean took it out of her hands and shoved it back on the box, which suddenly appeared in her hands.

"So what's your real name?" Dex asked, flipping through hundreds, or so it seemed, of fake I.D.'s. "Or should I just call you Jimmy? Or do you prefer Robert Plant? Is this your brother? I thought his name was Sam, why George? Wait, George Thorogood, as in George Thorogood and the Destroyers? Do you guys have a bunch of fake I.D.'s named after old rock stars?" She giggled. "Which one of you is Tom Petty?"

He ignored her some more and turned on his phone. "Hey, you still got access to any of Bobby's old towing equipment?... Awesome... Its a big silver Dodge... Thanks. Yea, send it to Reagan Vasco's house. No I didn't find him... Yea, yea I least I got that. Thanks Garth." He ended the call.

"Can you, like, talk to me? Or something? What is all this stuff. I like to believe I keep a rather level head in times like these, but you have a huge ass weapons cache in your trunk and a box of fake I.D.'s that could get you anywhere and everywhere. Including into an 80's hair band convention, and you're acting like it's nothing." He just looked at her and slammed the trunk closed, then went over to Bayleigh's Dodge. "Okay at lease answer me this. Did I spend the night in the car of a CIA agent? Or a mass murderer."

"No," Dean grunted. She followed him.

"Well, gee, thanks for elaborating. I really appreciate that- Omigod there's more." She was peering over his shoulder as he looked through Bayleigh's duffel bag of weapons.

He turned around suddenly. "I would get the fuck out of here if I were you." The small smile that she'd kept on disappeared instantly.

"Make me," she said, straightening and, in her own small, dark way, she became just as frightening as him. "Will you answer some of my damn questions now?" she asked, all hint of her former humor gone.

"I'm not a mass murderer," he said angrily. "And I'm not a spy. I hunt monsters. And apparently," he said gesturing at the Impala, "one has my brother and I need to find him."

"Like what kind of monsters? Are you like a real-life Dexter?" A spark grew in her eyes and she smirked.

"A real-life what-?" His eyebrows drew together. "No, like the ones that hide under your bed."

"What?" Dex furrowed her brows, confused.

"Like demons and ghosts and werewolves. And vampires."

Now she smiled. "What?"

"Yea." He looked at her, no sign at all that he was joking and she wondered if he wasn't for a moment. And then logic won.

She frowned and took a step back, crossing her arms. "I don't believe you."

"I frankly don't give a shit what you believe." He yanked the duffel bag out of the car and slammed the door, pushing past Dex and throwing the bag in the back seat of the Impala. He was about to slam that door closed when he noticed something. He leaned back in and took out her ratty brown bag. She took it from him, not meeting his eyes.

"Why were you sleeping in my car in the first place?"

The girl looked at him a little bit self-consciously. "Where else would I sleep?"

"Well hell, I don't know, a motel?"

"Maybe I don't like motels."

"So you'd rather break into someone's car." Dex nodded defiantly and Dean paused. "Are you homeless?" he asked.

She cringed. "I prefer the term Drifter. Homeless makes me sound dirty. And I have someone to go back to, I just don't want to. And I don't think they'd care either way."

Dean's face softened almost imperceptibly for a half second before returning to grim agitation. "How old are you?"

"That's impolite." The look on his face turned persistent. "I'm 25."

Dean looked around again, eyebrows hovering just over his sharp eyes, before gesturing at the passenger side. "Get in," he said.

Her face lit up and she got in the car, grinning. Dean had to hot-wire the car; the keys had obviously gone missing with Sam. "How long are you gonna let me ride with you?"

"Until I get sick of you." She smiled at him.

The Impala rumbled to life and Dean pushed a tape into the player. Not long later, they were headed West, Bad Company providing the soundtrack for their anomalous journey.

<><><><><>

Amare spent her days glaring out her window, waiting for the now-familiar click and roll of the lock on her door. It was usually either Perenna or food. Sometimes it was someone else, welcoming her back and dropping off presents. But those had pretty much ended two days ago.

Okay, so life here wasn't all bad the first time. They were treated as spoiled daughters in a huge childless family. But that huge childless family also milked them like cows three times a week. Only one of the more scarring memories Amare possessed. Now she was looking between the window and the dried out paints she hadn't yet bothered to pick up. The half painted painting of the old evergreen outside of her window. She didn't look up at the knock on her door, or when it opened and someone made their quiet entrance. The door closed and whoever it was took a step forward. Amare closed her eyes and groaned inwardly.

"I was wondering when you'd come," she murmured.

"I missed you, Amare," Mason said.

"Yea, well, you aren't the only one." He sat on the bed beside her and brushed hair away from her neck.

"No, I really missed you." He placed his lips on her neck and she slapped him away.

"Go give your shit to Ren. She'll take it. She actually likes it."

"It isn't the same, though," he said. "And you can't say that you don't like some of it."

She looked at him. "Of course I like some of it. Sex is sex. Everyone likes sex. No one doesn't like sex."

"Amare..."

"I'll tell you what. You take me to see Sam and I'll think about having sex with you."

Mason sighed, a finger tracing her neck. "I know you've been asking to see him, and I know Jason's told you you can't. I can't take you up there."

Amare stood up. "Fuck that shit. I know you're Jason's bitch now, that you do all sorts of dirty work for that prick. Now take me to see Sam, dammit."

"Amare-"

"I wonder if Perenna knows about us?"

It was Mason's turn to stand. "You wouldn't do that to her. You know how she feels about me."

"Wouldn't I? I'm a loose cannon these days," she said, waving a hand at the bars on her window. "Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. Who knows."

Mason looked between her, the door and his feet for a few moments before sighing and gesturing towards the door. Amare smiled grimly.

"You're kind of a bitch, now, aren't you?" he asked, opening the door, hand on her elbow.

"I've adapted."

"I've noticed."

She was led down into the musty basement, lined with cells made for the girls, chain-link with padlocks on the gates. But at the end were three solid steel cells that were made to keep anything and everything out, including, more recently, angels and demons. A guard stood outside of one.

"I'm supposed to let her see him," Mason said. The guard moved to unlatch the multitude of locks attached to the door. Mason turned to Amare. "We keep him pretty drugged up, so he might be asleep."

Then she was shoved in the cell. And, of course, Sam was asleep on the rusty cot in the corner. She was suddenly glad that he was because she realized that she didn't know what she was going to say. But her gladness was short-lived when he looked up at her, obviously not asleep or drugged in any way.

His face showed a look of betrayal, anger, and relief. It was also one of the saddest faces she had ever seen and she was surprised to find herself crying. She realized how dumb she must look in her dark-wash jeans and flowery blouse, remnants of her previous life, in this dingy room, crying in front of him for the first time ever and, now, unable to control the horrendous word vomit spewing from her mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Sam- I didn't... It- I'm so sorry. This was never supposed to happen. I'm so sorry... You fucking bastard I told you not to follow me and you did. Oh, shit, Sam this was never suppose to happen. I'm so sorry. Fuck, Sam." And she went on. Sam slowly stood up from the cot, springs creaking underneath him.

Her talking slowed when he started walking the short distance between them, and stopped when he carefully wrapped her in a hug. Amare melted, then, her face pressing into his shoulder and exhaling with a sob. One of his hands held the back of her head and the other was wrapped around her waist, holding her against him. Her heart was hammering as she gripped his shirt, bunched in her fists.

"I forgive you," he whispered, pressing his lips against the top of her head.

And suddenly she was drawn back to reality. She pushed away from him and stood back, sniffling and wiping her eyes, scrubbing away her most recent loss of control with the palms of her hands. Sam frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"This isn't gonna work," she replied. "I'm gonna get you out of here and then that's it." Her whole body was throbbing and aching, craving him. Begging for more than just that.

"Bayleigh-"

"That's not my name," her words feigning heartlessness.

He knew that and he nodded. "Amare." Her brows furrowed and she bit her lip, hating the sound of it coming from his beautiful mouth. "Why do you fight it so hard?"

Amare groaned. "Because, dammit-" she took on a commanding voice "-Sam Winchester your life expectancy was up decades ago and getting caught up with me will shorten it even more. And I will Not have your death on my hands."

"That's not what you said last year."

"That's because I didn't think I would have to deal with this shit again," she said angrily, throwing her hands up.

"Then why'd you leave?"

"Because I had to."

Sam cleared his throat and looked away, then moved to sit back down on the cot. He didn't want to press it any further.

Amare frowned and sighed, her voice lowering. "Can I at least tell you... everything? From the beginning. Maybe you'll understand... something.. about me, maybe." He didn't quite know what she meant, but he swallowed and nodded, eyebrows drawn together. "Okay, then. I guess it started before I was born..."